Dreams of Fact or Fiction?
by J.E.McCormickGal
Summary: Scotland wakes up from a horrible dream... but it was just a dream, right? So, why does this mansion England is going to visit give him a bad feeling... HetaOni, sort of brotherly.


**Dreams of Fact or Fiction?**

_A/N: So, a new fic! I'm not dead!_ _Huzzah!_

_I actually wrote this a while ago. It's based on a loose HetaOni headcanon/theory I have – if Romano starts receiving Veneziano's memories, might Scotland also receive some of England's? The basic premise is that every time a new loop is started, Scotland will wake up after a dream of how England died in the previous loop. Got it?_

_I could explain in further detail but I won't. For now, enjoy the story!_

_Warning: Mention of character death, but hey, it's HetaOni_

~~::.::~~

"_No, England don't-!"_

_A flash of light – so bright, it's nearly blinding. England is yelling out and there's crying and shouting and a horrible, guttural growl that makes Scotland shudder. He wants to run from this sound, from whatever it is making his skin crawl._

"_Hang in there, hang in there England, okay, just don't-... stay with me, yeah?"_

_It has to be America, the voice, the accent. But it's different from usual – it's breaking in all the wrong places, weak and thick with tears. England is in pain, Scotland can tell from the shuddering, panting breaths and suppressed whimpers, but he can't see him, not really. Everything is oppressingly black, and the darkness is thick and the Scotsman can feel an underlying feeling on uneasiness as he realises his eyes are open, he just can't see anything._

"_G-go... get o-out of here...quickly."_

_England? He barely sounds like himself. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper, and it's shaking badly, and there's a stutter that seems to be caused by trouble with producing sound at all... Blood. Suddenly, Scotland is assaulted with the smell of blood, a lot of blood, and it makes him grimace. What's happening?_

"_I can't leave you here! Come on, come on, I'll take you with me, just hold on, for god's sake."_

"_J-just go... idiot..."_

_There is a moment of just crying, before England speaks up again, even weaker than before._

"_W-when you get out – __**when**__ A-America – I n-need you to... to do so-something for me."_

"_W-what?"_

"_Th-the last thing... I-I said to Scotland... was that I h-hated him..."_

_England said that all the time. England saying that was good. England telling Scotland he hated him meant England was alright. It meant Scotland didn't have to worry._

"_I-I don't. I don't ha-hate him. I've never r-really hated him, e-ever. He's my brother. I love him. T-Tell him that, p-please?"_

_Now that's definitely worrying. Why is England like this? Why is his voice shuddering so much? Why is he asking America to tell Scotland he loves him? Why is America talking like...like..._

"_W-why not just come and do it y-yourself?"_

"_You know why."_

_Scotland's heart stops there. For one moment, it stops completely and the silence crashes around his ears. He does know why. Because England is dying. Because England, wherever he is, will never get out of there. They're trapped somewhere and England has gotten himself hurt trying to get out, because no one is there to stop him from being the utter idiot he is in stupid situations._

_Scotland isn't there to stop him._

_England's breathing becomes just slightly more gasping, and America lets full-on sobs escape him, still crying out in vain, but Scotland isn't listening to him anymore. In a lull of silence, England's voice once again sounds._

"_H-heh... y-you know... I guess..."_

_England pauses to gasp once, loudly, breathing in deeply and taking all the air he can into his lungs. It has a frighteningly final sound to it._

"_Scotland... w-will get his... independence... now..."_

_A last breath, a final sound of air slowly leaving lungs. One last, faint, heartbeat._

_The darkness breaks. England is lying limply, one eye gashed out with half of his face, the other staring blankly, unseeingly ahead. His chest is all but ripped open, his shirt torn and soaked through with hot, fresh blood, staining the white a horrendous scarlet. The blood is smeared on his face, in his short, blonde, messy hair, pooling on the floor around him..._

_And Scotland screams._

~~::.::~~

"**AAGH!"**

Scotland bolts upright in his bed with a yell. The image from his dream clings to his mind, burning itself into his retinas, forever carving itself into the back of his head.

_England, covered in blood._

_England, practically torn to pieces._

_England, dead._

Quickly, he rubs his hands over his face, willing the image and the words away. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it doesn't seem like this is the first of the nightmares. There's an odd sense of déjà vu.

"_I've never r-really hated him, e-ever. He's my brother. I love him. T-Tell him that, p-please?"_

"_W-why not just come and do it y-yourself?"_

"_You know why."_

Scotland shakes his head, the words still coming to him. They were too clear, too perfectly England. Too real.

He looks over at the time. Early, but not early enough that he wants to bother with trying to get back to sleep before the meeting. He feels it would be a futile attempt anyway. Instead he stretches, runs a hand through his hair, and stands to head for the bathroom.

"_H-heh... y-you know... I guess... Scotland... w-will get his... independence... now..."_

Surely a good, hot shower would wash away the odd feeling in his chest.

~~::.::~~

"Oh for God's sake Scotland!"

"Dinnae 'for God's sake' me, England!"

It was the same old argument. It was always the same, repetitive shouting at each other, the same words over and over, the same result again – nothing. Every meeting went the same way; Scotland would get into an argument over England representing the whole of the UK, telling him that he didn't allow them to speak for themselves enough. England would try to deflect it, saying there wasn't much he could do about it. Scotland would flare up and insult him, and England would shout right back. Usually Scotland would then say something about him gaining independence, which in turn would set England off on a long and very loud rant. Then Scotland would insist on the 'you're an incompetent bampot' point.

And then they'd get to this point.

'For God's sake'. 'Don't 'for God's sake' me'. 'I'll 'for God's sake' you all I want'. 'You're still an incompetent git'. 'Just drop it already Scotland'. 'No.'

"I'll 'for God's sake' you all I want!" England huffed. Scotland opened his mouth to make his usual retort, but England interrupted him. "No, I don't have time for this. America is dragging me off to some stupid house place and I want it over with as soon as possible. I have things to prepare for the next meeting. Go and sulk to yourself. Fuck off."

Scotland ignored the odd jab in his chest at the mention of the house.

"You know what, England? You can go off and _die_ for all I care. Maybe without you we could all run our countries better without a tosser like you in charge." He sneers instead, aiming to hurt. He doesn't know what makes him say those words – what makes him tell England to _die_.

The image flickers back into his head_. England, dead._ He wills it not to affect him.

England is just glaring at him, fighting back whatever his response was. America appears at the other end of the corridor.

"Dude, you coming? We're setting off now!"

England glances back at him and nods. He looks briefly towards Scotland.

"God, I hate you."

The words are icy and sharp. Scotland scoffs.

"The feeling is entirely reciprocated, _little brother_."

England turns on his heel and strides off towards America. Scotland flips off his back just for good measure and then also turns and storms away. He ignores the nagging feeling at the back of his mind, but he can't quite ignore the whispers of his dream that come back to haunt him again.

"_Th-the last thing... I-I said to Scotland... was that I h-hated him...I-I don't. I don't ha-hate him. I've never r-really hated him, e-ever. He's my brother. I love him. T-Tell him that, p-please?"_

"_W-why not just come and do it y-yourself?"_

"_You know why."_

"_**You can go and **__**die**__** for all I care."**_

~~::.::~~

_A/N: There ya go!_

_I hope you like it, I wrote it to include a lot of headcanons of mine for England and Scotland within HetaOni (England's last words for example – I like killing big brother's feels) and yeah. Reviews are very much appreciated guys :3_

_(Also, if you read my other Hetalia stuff, I'm working on updates for With A Side Of Tomatoes and Inside Italia, but due to workload and a lot of stuff going on at home that has kicked up my depression again, it's going very slowly. Sorry guys!)_


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